Slices of Life at 221B
by ElenaC
Summary: Series of one-shot snippets in no particular order, some angsty and some not, most of them slash or pre-slash. Rated M because smut will creep in, so beware if you don't like it.
1. Hector

**Hector**  
by ElenaC

"Holmes," I called to my companion, who was currently rummaging about in his room, "might I have the key?"

The key in question, of course, was the key to his drawer, where he kept all valuables in our shared household, among them what he fancifully called his 'museum' of case mementos, and my cheque-book.

"Get it yourself, would you, Watson? It'd be rather awkward for me to interrupt this now." Through the half-open door, I spied a rough and powerful-looking cobbler seated before Holmes' dressing-mirror. Apart from the voice, the only thing that still reminded me of my friend was his sharp profile, which he was in the process of disguising by applying some flesh-coloured mass to his nose. "It's taped to the bottom of the second drawer, left-hand side," the cobbler added without looking at me.

I followed his instructions, found the key where he had said it would be, and was just about to close the drawer when my eye fell upon a most curious item.

It was a cardboard box, open, and filled with cotton wool, upon which rested a black stone, about the size of a child's fist. The stone appeared to look at me out of white ceramic eyes upon which black pupils had been painted.

Without thinking, I lifted the box out of the drawer for a closer look. In the light of our gas-jets, the stone looked as if its edges had been worn smooth by being handled often and thoroughly; the glue which affixed the eyes to the stone had that cracked look that comes with age and frequent repairs. Clearly, this was a much-loved item. But what was it? Not a case memento, for then it would be in the other drawer.

"Have you found it, Watson?" Holmes asked from behind me.

I turned, the box still in my hand. "I have. And I found... this." I felt torn between curiosity and embarrassment, for I had obviously stumbled upon something private.

Holmes' heavily disguised face, surprisingly, broke into a wide smile. "Oh. You found Hector."

I held my breath. His expression, what I could see of it beneath his makeup, was as open as I had ever seen it. This was the first glimpse he had ever granted me of the heart he was guarding so closely, but that I had nevertheless suspected he had. I still did not know him all that well for all we had been sharing rooms for almost two months now, and I had only recently learned about his chosen profession, but I had never believed he truly was as cold as he preferred the world to think he was.

This man, who was presently reaching out for the box and taking it from my hand with an almost childlike smile, was so clearly not Holmes the reasoning machine, or Holmes the sleuth-hound, or even Holmes the musician and day-dreamer, that I was thoroughly charmed and even more intrigued by this new insight into his singular character.

He took the stone out of the box and cradled it in his hand as if it were alive; I could see the ease with which his fingers found the natural grooves upon the black surface. "You are justified in wondering, Watson, if I have not taken leave of my senses, that I should keep an ordinary black granite stone in so elaborate a fashion."

"Not at all, dear fellow. I can see that this is no ordinary stone."

He smiled again, a little sadly. "Quite so. This stone has been with me since I was four. He is the only pet my parents allowed me to have."

I found myself swallowing against a lump in my throat. As someone who had grown up with the exuberance and playfulness of dogs, I could not conceive of something like this.

"When I was younger," Holmes went on in a dreamy tone of voice, "I was convinced that even inanimate objects have feelings. I found Hector during a rare family outing. He was lying in a creek, all cold and covered with green algae, slimy to the touch. I knew he was profoundly unhappy there, so I freed him from the flora, dried him, put him in my pocket and carried him home with me, taking care to keep him warm with my body heat. For years, he was always somewhere about my person. I even gave him eyes so he could see."

He held the stone out to me as if offering some rare and precious artefact for my inspection. I took it from him carefully; the symbolism of the moment was not lost upon me.

For a moment, he continued to look at the stone, his pet, in my hand. Then he seemed to gather himself, handed me the cardboard box as well, and squared his shoulders briskly. "Well, I should be going, Watson. Cobbling is a trade that favours the early birds. Put him back in his drawer, will you?"

I nodded wordlessly, still regarding the smooth black stone, Hector, that was lying snug in the palm of my hand, rapidly soaking up my body heat, until I heard the door close behind him.

Strange man, Holmes. But I was smiling with hope. Was it so unreasonable to think that someone capable of loving a stone could also learn to love a Watson?


	2. Cattle Herds

**Cattle Herds**  
by ElenaC

It was still early - before dawn - when I awoke, feeling cramped and uncommonly warm. Before my heavy and pleasantly aching body could command me to move and stretch, however, I remembered the events of the previous evening and the possible cause for my position, so I suppressed the impulse and remained contentedly still, save for a cautious turning of my head towards my companion, who was sharing my bed.

Sherlock Holmes lay deep in slumber, his lean, muscular chest rising and falling in the even rhythm of sleep, his delicate eyelids and dark lashes moving as he looked at whatever images his dreaming mind was evoking. For once, I noticed with no little pride, he was enjoying the complete relaxation of true sleep, not merely the poor facsimile he normally achieved when, exhausted in the wake of several consecutive days of tireless work, his body finally demanded its due, or, worse, when he employed artificial means of stupor. I could not properly discern his colour in the dim light filtering into my bedchamber from the street, but I have no doubt that he was looking healthier than he had in months, his pallor replaced by the soft flush granted him by our recent exertions.

I still had not grown used to the almost free access I now had to my beloved friend's body, nor to the fact that, at least during moments of idleness, he seemed not only to welcome my advances, but also to desire me almost as much as I him. We were as yet in the process of discovering each other, and in a way, ourselves. I was learning how to give Holmes pleasure even as he, often for the first time, experienced what he was capable of feeling. He was as diligent and thorough a student in this as he had been in everything else. For myself, I am proud to say that, no matter how often he cared to repeat a certain activity, I was ever able to keep up with him.

Slowly and carefully, I shifted position until I could comfortable enjoy this opportunity to look my fill at Holmes' face without fear of being caught and subjected to a sarcastic remark. I was in that stage in a fresh relationship where one discovers something new about one's beloved daily, sometimes hourly, no matter how often one's eye may have charted the same territory during more innocent times. At this occasion, I admired for the first time the way the shadows pooled beneath his angular cheekbones, the way he looked so young and somehow noble in repose, and the way his mussed hair fell over his high forehead, and how his early morning shadow leant a disrespectful air to his normally prim and proper character.

With something of mixed astonishment and smugness, I felt my body beginning to respond to the sight, for, considering the exertions of the previous night, I had not expected to be ready for more this soon. I decided, however, to let the impulse die without acting upon it. What with Holmes' irregular sleeping habits, I should be a poor friend and worse doctor indeed if I deprived him of what rest he could get merely for my own gratification.

Instead, I continued to look at him, marvelling at the fact that I, a quite normal man with average intelligence, should be the one to have captured the great Sherlock Holmes' heart.

One of his hands lay upon the pillow next to his face, long, slender fingers slightly curled in relaxation. As I regarded it, musing how delicate it looked and how strong its grip could be, admiring the clean, straight lines, the hand twitched slightly, briefly, as if about to curl into a fist, and looking into my friend's face that was turned towards me, I found a frown marring the smoothness of his brow.

I dearly wanted to reach out and touch him there in reassurance, but, familiar with the peculiar lightness of his sleep, I refrained. Only the night before, I had roused him merely by looking at him, or at least he claimed to have felt the weight of my glance upon himself. While I was of course aware of the acuity of his senses, I was not quite prepared to credit this assertion. Still, having his face touched would certainly wake him, and moreover, Sherlock Holmes is capable of being perfectly grumpy and unreasonable when disturbed for no good reason. I was not about to risk his displeasure lightly.

This resolution, however, did not last very long, for soon after having made it, I watched Holmes' frown evolve into a full-blown scowl; the rhythm of his breathing accelerated and his fingers twitched in earnest. Obviously, his dream had ceased to be a pleasant one, and I was no longer capable of doing nothing.

Gently, I manoeuvred my hand until it hovered over his brow, and very gently, I stroked my thumb along the bridge of his nose and over the furious furrow between his eyebrows.

He did not react immediately except for a short pause in his breathing. A curious sound emerged from his opening lips - a cross between a sigh and a hum -, and then his eyes shot open even as his hand sprang to life to capture mine.

His grip was like steel, and I have no doubt that he would have attacked me, but fortunately, his quick perception instantly informed him that it was only I. He fell back with a groan, releasing me, and laid his arm across his eyes.

Before I could apologize for waking him, he muttered, "Thank you, Watson."

His voice sounded so normal and firm that I knew he was making a special effort to make it appear so. Briefly, I cast for words that would convince him to confide in me what was troubling his dreams so, but then I merely said, "Come here," holding out my arms in invitation.

He continued to look at me in silence for a long moment. Just when I should have felt embarrassment at the blatant impulse that had prompted my action, I watched something I had never seen before: Holmes seemed to consciously remove the barrier that guarded his expression from the deeper workings of his feelings - which he certainly had -, and allowed his soul to exist upon his countenance.

I saw something that I can only call lingering terror in his face, and I felt humbled that he should allow me to glimpse it. Then he closed his eyes and moved close to me. I gladly enfolded his spare frame that I had come to know so intimately with my arms, a sensation of heat building at the back of my eyes when he surrendered himself to my embrace, seeming to relax every muscle that came into contact with my body. At that moment, I knew myself immensely privileged by this trust from one who cultivated no friends - no friends, no acquaintances - save myself.

Slowly, one of his hands snaked around me, holding on to me with increasing urgency and making me realize that, even though I had freed him from the snares of his sleeping mind, the crisis had not yet passed. I was glad to lend my support, little enough of it though there was. Neither of us said a word. I doubted he would ever give up his habitual reticence sufficiently for verbalizing his troubles unreservedly, and neither did I press him. I knew him well enough by now to know that he would confide in me what he chose, when he chose, and no amount of prodding would convince him otherwise.

So I merely held him, hoping that the solidity and warmth of my body would provide him with what he needed.

Just when I was convinced that he had gone back to sleep and was resigning myself to the fact that I should soon lose feeling in my left arm, he shifted slightly and sighed. "I wish I had known you years earlier, Watson," he said softly.

I found that I was holding my breath, convinced that he was leading up to telling me about what I had come to think was his troubled youth. But when this auspicious beginning was followed by a heavy silence, I felt moved to say staunchly, "I should have been your friend no matter when I met you, Holmes. Even as a toddler in the sandpit."

This surprised a chuckle out of him. "Good old Watson" He lay quiet for a minute before adding, "I have no doubt my life would have been much different." Then, once more, he fell silent without elaborating.

I decided to help him by embarking upon a little confiding of my own. "I grew up with dogs," I said reminiscently. "Baxter the wolfhound was my truest companion when I was eight."

"Strange name for a dog," Holmes commented.

"He was named after one of the heroes in the first book I owned. Captain Francis Baxter, pirate."

"Why not Francis?"

"My brother's dog was named Francis. Couldn't have two Francises in the family."

"True enough."

Another silence followed.

"I have frequently observed that some imprints left upon a man's soul during his youth tend to remain visible throughout his life, while others fade completely," he finally began in what I had come to term his philosophical tone. "A child's mind is like a virgin land, soft marsh in some places, rocky and hard-packed earth in others. Experience treads it like a herd of cattle, or flies across it like a bird. Too many cattle will leave devastation." By now, his voice was almost toneless. "And in response, the mind is constantly changing. Marshes dry up, refusing to let traces linger. Sometimes, the mind will turn into a desert to protect itself from all those trampling hooves."

I moved my free hand soothingly across his back in slow circles, saying nothing. He was trying to tell me something, but could not bring himself to use clearer words than these rather poetic images. And still, or maybe because of it, I felt tears of sympathy gather in the corners of my eyes.

"But there is balance in everything," he went on tonelessly. "The water does not disappear. It drains underground, forming currents and subterranean rivers of frightening depth and speed. A mind that is turned inward like this will eventually drown in a vortex formed by itself."

I had to do something, so I shifted and turned and angled my head so I could kiss his brow.

He smiled at me, a slow, sad smile. "Fortunately, sometimes it rains upon the mind desert, halting the process. Rain, warm, gentle, moistening rain will call the mind back to the surface, and the land will cease to dry up. Of course, this once again makes the mind vulnerable to the cattle herds of experience."

"But there are fences and herding dogs," I said helplessly. "Couldn't they keep the cattle away from the marshes?"

"Of course. But that, to keep using this rather unscientific analogy, is a power only available to an adult mind. There are no fences in a child's mind, and the only dogs that roam it are wild."

To my surprise, I saw a glistening trail of moisture upon his cheek. My heart gave a painful lurch. I had no idea how I should go about healing a hurt of this magnitude. Feeling clumsy and inadequate, I tightened my about upon his slim form. "What can I do?" I whispered.

The whipcord muscles in his arms flexed as he returned my embrace. "Let me sleep here," he said, almost inaudibly. "In your arms."

"Of course."

"Thank you."

He was asleep within minutes. I am glad to say that no more dreams disturbed his rest that night. If this is due in any small way to my presence, then that is my pleasure, my privilege, and my reward.


	3. Aftermath

**Aftermath**  
by ElenaC

It had been a harrowing case. Sherlock Holmes had spent almost a fortnight on a difficult investigation that had taxed his powers to the limit. During the course of it, he had grown progressively thinner and paler, until things reached a point when I became positively concerned for his health. But, as always, all my cautioning words fell upon deaf ears, for these considerations were not of the slightest importance to him when the solution to a mystery was at stake, or indeed at any other time.

Finally, upon the evening of the fourteenth day of the investigation, he received a telegram that, I knew, he hoped would finally lead him to the solution of his case. He ripped it open eagerly; but instead of the cry of triumph I expected to hear, not a sound emerged from him save a choked gasp. He paled alarmingly, so much so that I think he would have fallen had he not been seated already.

"What on earth is the matter, dear fellow?" cried I, startled by his reaction.

He directed his stricken eyes towards me. Without saying a word, he crumpled the telegram and tossed it in my general direction. While I was fumbling to catch it, he rose and headed for his bedroom. The door fell shut.

I smoothed out the telegram, and read: "Handwriting does not match STOP You cannot win them all STOP Lestrade"

I had no idea what this was about, not having been involved in this particular investigation, but I did not need to know any details to realise how bad it sounded. But, to my mind, what was worse was the fact that Holmes had not uttered a single word, not even an oath, in response to this obvious failure; instead, his retreat had been silent, abrupt, and complete.

Like all great artists, he had always felt defeat keenly. Normally, however, he was able to rise above his sensitive nature and attain a half-comical, half cynical attitude whenever an investigation did not go well, rare as that was. This time, however, his reaction was fatally different, and I grew very worried.

Looking around, I spotted the violin, but not the morocco case.

I rose and went to knock upon his door. "Holmes?"

There was no response.

"Holmes, please say something, or I'll come in."

Nothing.

I opened the door, expecting to find him in the process of injecting himself with either morphine or cocaine, his preferred vehicles of escape. Instead, he was sitting upon his bed, elbows upon his knees and face hidden in his hands. He did not react to my entrance, not even when I knelt down in front of him. His breathing was audible and irregular, and I realised he was weeping.

I placed both hands upon his knees. "Holmes."

"Do me the inestimable favour, my dear Watson, to leave me alone," said he without raising his head or removing his hands from his face. His voice sounded normal, if a bit weak and slightly nasal.

"I should be a poor friend if I did that, dear chap," I said gently.

"Nothing you can do. I've failed. My client will be hanged." He drew a shuddering breath. "I was so certain."

Ignoring his plea for solitude, I moved to sit next to him upon his bed and put an arm about his shoulders. It was like hugging a coil of ropes. "I'm so sorry," said I, feeling my skills as a wordsmith desert me completely in the face of his obvious distress.

He sagged against me, drained in body and spirit, relying upon me to hold him upright. "I'll wager Scotland Yard are having a good laugh at my expense right about now," he murmured. "This is just what they have been waiting for - the theorist proved wrong. I'll never hear the end of it." His hands moved higher, fisting themselves into his hair. "Heavens, I'm tired."

"You haven't slept in days, Holmes." I made him list sideways and sink onto the bed without releasing my hold, which obliged me to lie down next to him, holding him close to me. "How about you sleep for a while, allow yourself some food and then sleep again. Everything will look better after a good rest and with a full belly."

He snorted, bloodshot eyes closed and black lashes spiked with moisture. "Is that a medical prescription, Doctor?"

"My advice as your friend, and, yes, it's medically sound. You've all but run yourself to ground, old man. I'm amazed you haven't collapsed long ago." I disentangled myself and removed his boots.

When I pulled the bedclothes over him, he was already asleep.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes slept for twenty-four hours, his rest only interrupted once to put on his nightshirt, devour a stack of sandwiches, drink half a gallon of water and generally take care of his bodily needs before going back to bed. I looked in upon him periodically, and it was a testament to his exhaustion that he did not stir even when I took his pulse and peeled back his eyelids.

On the next day, he finally emerged, slowly moving about our sitting-room, pale as a ghost and as silent, only dressed in his nightshirt. He did not respond to my greeting or enquiries about his health, choosing instead to curl up upon the sofa, whereupon he ceased to move and remained motionless for hours. Only his slow breathing and the occasional blinking of his half-open eyes convinced me that he was even still alive.

I had, of course, seen him in this state before, but never had his face been so white and his eyes so hollow as now. The fact that he had left his bedroom gave me some small hope, but when he did not show the slightest interest in the papers, even ignoring me when I read the agony columns aloud to him, I worried once more.

A full day later, nothing had changed. I was frantic by this time, thinking an onset of brain-fever was imminent, and so I decided to take drastic measures to bring him out of his fugue state.

First, I sent Mrs. Hudson away. She merely looked at me with more comprehension than I would have expected and left soon after, muttering about taking the opportunity to visit her sister. Next, I filled our bathtub with water that was slightly warmer than was comfortable for me. Then I went into our sitting-room where Holmes was still installed upon the sofa, giving no sign that he was aware of my presence. This impression was reinforced when I undressed in front of him until I was as naked as the day I was born, and he did not even blink.

I sat down upon the sofa next to him, enfolded him in my arms, hooked his legs over my left arm and threaded my right one around his shoulders, and then I lifted him bodily. He gave a small sound of surprise and rested his head against my shoulder, but that was the extent of his reaction.

And so, I carried him into our bathroom, cautiously stepped into the tub with my friend in my arms, and sat down with him in the warm water.

He gave a bone-deep shudder as the water engulfed him, nightshirt and all. I undid all the buttons and threw the sodden thing out, and then I proceeded to wash every inch of him, taking my time, hoping I could rinse off his sorrow as easily and gently as I cleansed his body.

For almost a full hour, there was no sound save the soothing splashing of the soapy water, until finally, his soft voice broke the silence: "I swear that never had a man a more precious friend than you, Watson."

I sighed with enormous relief. "Glad to have you back with me, Holmes."

"I never left, Watson," said he, still softly.

I hugged him close to me. "But you almost did, dear fellow. Please do not scare me like that again. You know that my nerves are all in shreds after Afghanistan."

He half turned and rested his head against my chest. "It's getting cold."

"We should get out."

"Hmmm." He made no move to do so.

In the end, I had to quit the tub first and hold out the towels invitingly for him to step into, and a few minutes later, he was back upon the sofa, clean and dry, hugging a pillow to himself, and this time, I was there with him, snuggled in behind him.

Staring bleakly into the middle distance, he heaved a sigh that seemed to come from the very core of his being. I laid my head against his bare back, considering and discarding phrases about needing to get back into the saddle, or that, considering all his amazing successes, this one failure was hardly the end of everything, but there really was nothing I could say that would not sound trite or sarcastic.

And so I simply put my arms around him and held him.

* * *

It took another full day for Holmes to rise above his depression. I think he finally bored himself, for on the morrow, he was as philosophical and pragmatic as ever. His appetite was back as well as his charming conversation, and it seemed as if his near break-down had never occurred.

It does not happen often that Sherlock Holmes is in the wrong. But whenever it does, I make sure to be there for him. He frets, yes, and kicks himself, and sometimes he is silent and despondent for longer than is good for him. But I am glad to say that never again did things deteriorate to the desperate state I have described here. I do not flatter myself by thinking that this is due to anything I do or say. But maybe, the simple fact that I am there with him plays some small part.


	4. Poetry

**Poetry**  
by ElenaC

I have often had occasion to recount my friend's singular indifference to the various discomforts he is subjected to in his work as the world's first and foremost private consulting detective. His ability to go without food or sleep for days when he is hot upon the scent has been a matter of published record as much as a source of perpetual frustration for me as his doctor and friend. The reader may also be able to imagine my crossness with him when, on more than one occasion, I found that he had been, as the army terms goes, 'walking wounded' during an investigation, simply because the prospect of losing his quarry held greater terror for him than losing a limb.

What I have, so far, not put down in writing is the fact that Holmes, when home and without a case, can be the most lachrymose and snivelling patient that ever tried a doctor's patience.

I refer to one dismal week in November of the past year. My friend had caught a cold – finally! as I could not help remarking, considering that spending a night in motionless vigil in the undergrowth surrounding a suspect's house in the drizzle during that time of year is not exactly beneficial to one's health. He had promptly spent all morning in bed, and when he finally appeared just before lunchtime, still wearing his nightshirt beneath his dressing gown, his nose swollen and his eyes puffy, it required but one glance at him for me to realize his condition.

I rose immediately and wrapped a thick woollen blanket around his thin shoulders. He looked at me gratefully, opened his mouth to say something, and an almighty sneeze emerged. Fortunately, as I was still hovering over him, I managed to dissuade his groping hand from grabbing the tablecloth and put a napkin into his slender questing fingers, which he then used to blow his nose messily.

For a while, he put a brave face upon it, asking in a nasal voice if there was anything in the papers about the arrest of one John Fortescue and chatting a bit about the chase, but when the incessant sneezing interruptions began to wear upon his nerves, he finally subsided and merely sat there with a muttered, "I hate this."

"Maybe you should just return to bed," I told him, not without sympathy. "I'll ask Mrs. Hudson to make you some hot lemonade and a grate apple. And some chicken soup."

He made a face at this, but then, to my astonishment, he did return to his room and lay down without his usual protestation of being 'fit as his Strad'. Quite the contrary; he said nothing and merely pulled the blanket up to his swollen nose, sniffing and wheezing as if he were in the process of drawing his last breaths, all the while throwing me pleading little glances.

I merely smiled and placed my hand upon his brow. "I'm very sorry, dear fellow. Despite all our progress, we have not yet learned to cure the common cold. You're just going to have to wait it out."

He sneezed mightily, his upper body coming off the pillows with the force of it, and then he fell back with a groan. "I hate this. I wish I could die. Everything hurts, Watson. Surely this is more than a mere cold. It feels more like a tropical fever. I may have caught something at the docks three weeks ago during the affair of the missing fob. Are you quite certain it's just a cold?"

"Positive. I am quite capable of diagnosing a common cold, but I can always give you a thorough examination if you prefer," I replied, a trifle miffed at this slight at my professional competence.

He actually pulled the covers over his head. "Thank you, but no," his muffled voice came. "No pushing things down my throat, Watson. Nor anywhere else, for that matter."

I ignored the innuendo, half-hearted as it was. "Very well, then," I said, patting the heap where I judged Holmes' shoulder to be. "I'll be downstairs, taking care of things."

For an hour or so, I made him drink the various concoctions that doctors, in their helplessness, prescribe their patients in this situation, put ointments onto his chest and back (with barely concealed appreciation of his slender physique in my case and even less concealed disgust in Holmes') and diagnosed nothing more severe than a slight fever.

All the while, Holmes kept complaining. The pillow was too lumpy, the sheet kept tying itself into knots, his throat hurt, he hated herbal tea, his back hurt, his head hurt, his eyes hurt, and why was it so bright outside?, all interrupted by frequent sneezes and diligent inroads into the pile of handkerchiefs I had placed upon his bedside table.

At last, he lay quiet upon his side, swallowing against his swollen throat and snivelling.

"Try to get some rest, dear fellow," I told him gently. "I'll be in the sitting-room, in case you need anything."

"I need this to be over and done with, is what I need," he muttered nasally. "And I need you stop fussing. Nothing you've done has actually helped one iota. Now leave me the deuce alone."

This I ignored, knowing that it was merely his clogged sinuses and general self-pity speaking. "Just call me." I rose to go.

"Wait." He stopped to blow his nose and let the used kerchief fall to the floor. "Watson... would you... if you've nothing better to do..."

I picked up the sodden thing. "Anything."

"There's a book over there in the shelf. The one with the blue binding. Would you...? My eyes really hurt."

"Of course."

From his bashful manner, I half expected the book in question to be either a collection of fairytales or a romance novel. To my surprise, it was a well-thumbed edition of Tennyson. I forbore to comment and started reading. Not fifteen minutes later, when I was halfway through Morte D'Arthur, he was asleep. I gently blotted away the trails of moisture upon his cheek and left him to his rest.

Two hours later, he summoned me to his side because he was out of clean handkerchiefs. I brought him most of mine, and, to forestall yet another complaint, a tub of salve for his reddened nose, along with a volume of Keat's poems that I enjoyed. He listened to them as meekly as he had to Tennyson, without once uttering his usual derisive comments on the subject of romance. It almost seemed as if his illness were eroding his resistance to sentiment.

Not one to waste such an opportunity, I next read to him excerpts from a slim volume of poems I myself had perpetrated a while ago, when the romance between us was still fresh and new. Now, I do not by any means claim to be anybody's great poet, but I had hardly begun when Holmes erupted into such a salvo of sneezes that I was hard put not to take it personally.

Eyes streaming, he asked me to fetch him a bowl of water so he could "remove all this mucus from my face".

When I came back, it did not take me long to notice that my little volume had vanished. Holmes lay in bed quietly, and a newborn babe could not have looked more innocent.

"All right, Sherlock," I said sternly, "what have you done with it?"

He blinked at me, the picture of angelic if sodden harmlessness, and made thorough use of the warm water and washcloth before enquiring blandly, "Done with what?"

"You know very well with what." I was bitterly hurt. "It's the only copy in existence. Took me more than three months to write it, and another two weeks to find a printer for just one copy, not to mention the pretty penny I was obliged to pay for it. I swear, if you've done some irreparable harm to it..." I trailed off. Not that I should not put it past him to actually throw the thing into the fire, it was a bit much to accuse him of it before the fact.

"Watson!" he cried, dropping his pretence and reaching beneath his pillow. "Your bull-pup is showing! I was, I admit, about to play a little joke upon you, but seeing as you're about to seriously split a seam, I shall desist for sheer fear of my life. Your little opus is unharmed." To prove it, he pulled it out from beneath his head and handed it to me. "I am sorry, dear fellow. My only excuse is that I'm feeling thoroughly miserable, and you are looking so disgustingly healthy and cheerful that I was overcome by a misplaced malevolent impulse. Please rein in your Scottish temper and forgive me."

I glared at him, checked that my little volume was, indeed, none the worse for wear, and glared some more. For all his brilliance and undeniable greatness, Holmes' occasional bouts of childishness can be quite trying, and never more so when he is being a trying patient on top of it.

But I have never been able to be cross with him for long. Not half a minute later I leaned over and gently kissed his brow by way of accepting his apology. "I forgive you, but as penance, I demand that you cease your complaining for the rest of the day. Your pillow, for example, is no more lumpy than it was yesterday, you know."

He smiled in a commendably shamefaced manner and nodded meekly.

I, for one, was not above using his present contrite mood to heap more poetry upon him, secretly gleeful that he balked neither at Wordsworth, nor, surprisingly, at Whitman. He even swallowed his medicine, bitter as it was, without a peep of protest.

Of course, this malleable mood of his did not survive the night. By next morning, he was as grumpy and irascible as before. But I had a new weapon, and I used it without compunction, for I only needed to wave my little booklet at him to curb his more outrageous demands and grouses.

And, having learned that a sentimental Holmes is a gentle Holmes, if things got really bad, I simply read to him.


	5. Divinations

**Divinations**  
By ElenaC

Holmes glared at the dark-haired woman. "I want you to know, madam, that I am here only because I lost a bet, and that I shall not, under any circumstances, believe for a second that you are indeed able to foretell the future."

The woman barely glanced up from shuffling her cards, but in the light of the single candle in the wagon, it seemed as if she were smiling.

"But in the interest of common politeness, and since I gave my word, I shall at least listen."

"Listen now, think about my words later," the gypsy woman said in heavily accented English. "And pay me now."

Holmes inclined his head. "Of course," but the tone of his voice made it clear that he considered it a waste of money.

The gypsy placed the stack of cards in front of him. "Cut, please."

He did so, looking supremely sceptical.

She shuffled some more, asked him to cut again, and then spread out the cards, face first, in front of both of them. "This is you," she said, pointing at the King of Hearts. "Surrounded by Spades, you are. Low spirits and disappointments. Business not going well. Ah," she interrupted herself, "seven of Spades. You are going to make a decision. There, the ten of Clubs. You will journey, or move, and there you will meet him."

Holmes was looking at her stony-eyed. "Journey or move? That is a bit vague. I journey all the time."

"Move, then," she said, imperturbably. "Ace of Hearts is near, move house. That is the decision. You will move, but do not know where."

"You truly read this from the cards?" His voice held a wealth of incredulity.

"Cards do not lie. It is all here. Move house, and there is he."

"Who?"

She pointed at the Jack of Spades. "Young man, medical or law man. I cannot say. He is close to the Ace of Hearts." She looked at him searchingly in a manner Holmes found disconcertingly familiar. "Not a woman in sight," she said with a curious undertone.

By now, Holmes found himself growing uncomfortable. He was about to accuse her of having alternate sources of information about him, but he swallowed his words, for he could see for himself that all the queens in the deck were laid out as far away from the King of Hearts as they could be. Besides, it was altogether possible that other people besides himself were capable of making deductions from little things, even if he did wonder how she might be able to deduce his aversion to women from his appearance.

"This… man," he asked hesitantly. "What can you tell me about him?"

"Man of good character, loyal," she said, pointing at the King of Clubs next to the Jack of Spades. "You and he will become good friends." This, apparently, she read from the nearby Eight of Clubs.

"When will all this happen?"

"We need to make new reading for that," she said shrewdly. "Cost more money."

"In that case, thank you, no." He smiled. "I do not suppose I can come back and demand my money back if your predictions are wrong?"

"Will not be here then anymore," she said, smiling too. "Believe it, or do not believe it. And now go, meet your man."

He put a sovereign on her table. She spat upon it and pocketed it, then looked up at him strangely. "Watch your step," she said, her voice a little deeper than before. "Slippery ground next to falling water. I can hear someone calling for you, and weep. Watch your step near the falling water."

Holmes stepped out of her wagon and walked away as fast as he could. He would have to talk to Stamford about that bet. The dresser owed him for forcing him to go through this, even if it was all acting and guesswork, based on knowledge of human nature, superstition and the accidental placement of playing cards. No more than that, certainly.


	6. Chemistry

**Chemistry**  
By ElenaC

I had been watching the bent back and shiny black hair that was all I could see of Holmes from my chair for half an hour while doing my best to keep my movement to a minimum. My companion was intent upon his test tubes and retorts and had been since shortly after breakfast, though the usual strong odours that I had learned to associate with his chemical work remained conspicuously absent.

It was a grey, rainy, dreary day. The weather made my old wounds throb miserably, and I fully intended to remain snug in my chair until evening. However, it was proving quite difficult to find a position that accommodated both my leg and my shoulder.

"Enough with the shifting and grunting, Watson," said Holmes suddenly without looking up. "Kindly remove your shirt, and I daresay that your trousers had best be out of the way as well."

I looked at the back of his head in astonishment. "Holmes?" I finally managed. Undress, in the middle of the day?

"You heard me, Doctor," he went on, shutting off the gas to the Bunsen burner and turning to face me, a low vessel containing an opaque liquid in his hand. "Oh, pray don't look at me like that. I have no designs upon your person beyond trying to ease your discomfort, and there is a good probability that this -" he held the vessel aloft - "will be instrumental in achieving this. It will, however, most certainly spoil your clothes. So please, Watson, disrobe."

I did so, more than a little touched at the fact that he should have gone to this much trouble and devote time he could have spent upon a serious chemical investigation to synthesising whatever it was he had synthesised.

"Um, Holmes, what precisely is this?" I asked while lying down carefully upon the sofa, wincing as my shoulder protested.

"A mixture of alcoholic extracts of several kitchen herbs I stole from Mrs. Hudson's larder, blended in a glycerine-water emulsion, based upon a Tibetan recipe. I had to improvise one of the components of the Tripa remedies, but I have no doubt that my substitution will be equally effective. Now, lie still, and relax."

His long, thin fingers dipped into the vessel and began to smooth the viscous substance onto my shoulder. There was a smell of mint, menthol, camphor, and other essential oils that I could not identify, accompanied first by a cooling, then a warming sensation.

I found myself breathing in the heady fumes and relaxing to the feel of Holmes' hands moving and stroking across my skin, and to my surprise, the dull, throbbing ache faded and finally disappeared entirely. "That feels amazing, Holmes," I muttered at length.

"Shhh. Relax. Sleep if you can."

The cool touch of his fingertips moved to my leg and proceeded to work its magic there. As before, the pain faded to nothing. To my surprise and joy, my friend did not stop his ministrations but instead extended them to my other leg and my other shoulder, and finally to the nape of my neck, pressing gently and rubbing in small circles until I felt as limp as a rag and ready to drop off. Holmes seemed to know, for he disappeared briefly, rummaged about in his bedroom, and presently came back to drape his bedclothes over me.

And so, surrounded by his smell and with the sense-memory of his touch upon my body, I fell asleep.


	7. End of her tether

**At The End Of Her Tether**  
By ElenaC

Several things happened at once. Holmes shouted something, there was an explosion, the pattering sound of numerous small impacts upon paper, wood and carpet was heard all over the sitting-room, and then there was a brief silence, broken by Holmes cursing in French.

I regarded the small shard of glass that had landed upon my newspaper, and then looked at my friend, who had clapped a bleeding hand to his eye. "Holmes," I cried, "you're injured! Let me see!"

I stepped towards him over the sparkly shards that covered the carpet, but he removed his hand from his eye and shook his head. "It's nothing, Watson, a mere scratch. Pray don't trouble yourself."

There was blood upon his forehead and on both of his hands. I looked around for my bag and was about to "trouble myself" with a vengeance, when the door flew open, and Mrs. Hudson stood framed in it like an avenging angel adorned with apron and wooden spoon.

She looked at the mess of the sitting-room, opened and closed her mouth a few times, and then cried: "I've had enough. You two fend for yourselves! I'm staying with my sister for the next two weeks. Good-bye, gentlemen!"

Holmes cursed again, fortunately again in French, and put the back of his hand to his mouth, less to stifle his words than to stem the flow of blood.

I looked back and forth between him and Mrs. Hudson whose indignation was noticeably lessening at the sight of Sherlock Holmes looking remarkably like an injured little boy, and I seized our advantage.

"My dear Mrs. Hudson," I said, stepping forward, "please accept our most humble and sincere apologies for the disruption of your routine. We shall of course answer for any damages and throw in a dinner in a restaurant of your choice if you would only see your way clear to giving our most deplorable household one more chance."

Noticing a further weakening of her resolve, I shot a glance at Holmes. All he managed, however, was a shamefaced nod, his mouth still covered by his hand. "Holmes!" I hissed, making prompting gestures.

He removed his hand long enough to say, "Quite so, Mrs. Hudson." Then the hand was back in place. The cut above his eyebrow was leaking blood along his temple. He was looking more pathetic than I would have believed possible.

And then he looked at our irate landlady, and I swear I saw him bat his lashes at her.

She dropped her indignant mien and shook her head in fond exasperation. "Really, Mr. Holmes."

"You'll stay, of course?" Unusually for Holmes, it was more a question than a statement.

She sighed deeply. "Yes, I shall stay. But really, gentlemen…"

"Excellent," Holmes said, paled, and pitched forward, unconscious.


	8. The Portrait

**The Portrait**  
by ElenaC

"All right, Watson," Holmes said in his best longsuffering tone, "I'll go along with you this once. But I swear by all that's holy, if this ever reaches any eyes other than yours or mine, you're a dead man. I shall tear and feather you, then draw and quarter you, and then I'll kill you in any number of imaginative ways, throw your entrails to Mr. Sherman's dogs, and bury your limbs at -"

"I get the point, Holmes," I said, busy with the camera. Open shutter, short exposure? Or better, long exposure? I could never remember the proper settings for this kind of light, and I had to get it right the first time. Holmes would certainly never go through this again if I botched it.

"I still don't see why I should wear this rag," Holmes went on complaining. "It doesn't even have a proper collar. In fact, it has no collar at all."

"It exposes your throat," I muttered, checking the flashlight. "I covet your throat. Your throat has to be visible, or this whole exercise is pointless."

"Hum," he commented doubtfully. I could hear rustling, and I imagined him fisting the thin fabric he was wearing with contempt. "One might argue the pointlessness of this exercise with or without a collar. This shirt, or whatever it is, looks completely disreputable. I look utterly ridiculous. I swear, Watson..."

"Yes, yes," I murmured soothingly. "You'll kill me, I know. Now, please stand over there, next to the fireplace."

He looked at where I had fastened the flashlight. "Isn't it traditional to hold the flash above the camera?"

"I'm going for an artistic effect, dear fellow," I said, with a trace of asperity. It was in Holmes' proud nature to feel compelled to criticise any effort of mine in any artistic endeavour, simply because he had art in the blood, while I had Celts in mine. It was beginning to wear upon my nerves.

He made an exaggerated placating gesture. "Far be it from me to disturb your vision," he said sarcastically.

"Thank you."

He took his position, shifting here and there in response to my hand motions, while I was huddled behind the contraption, covered by the black cloth.

"The pipe, please."

He picked it up from the mantel and looked at it curiously. "That's not one of mine."

"I know. It will photograph better than your usual ones. Now, please look here, and try to look like you don't think you look ridiculous. You do not, in fact. I think you look sexy."

He snorted, but followed my instruction.

There was a bright flash.

Holmes closed his eyes and sank down upon a nearby chair in utter despair. "I swear, Watson..."

"I know." Gleefully, I extracted my prize from the camera. I love birthdays.


	9. Sleep

**Sleep**  
by ElenaC

I was awoken from a sound sleep by a persistent noise from downstairs. Rolling onto my back, I listened, and soon identified it as someone pacing in the sitting-room below me.

It was that time in the dead of night when a man has no business being awake, except to attend to, well, business, but I knew that sound, and I knew from experience that I should have no hope of going back to sleep before I had taken care of it. So I turned myself out of my warm bed, threw on my dressing-gown, and descended the stairs, again forgetting to count the steps until I was halfway down (I had every hope of one day being able to surprise Holmes with my knowledge of how many steps there were to my room, but so far, he had neglected to ask even as I had forgotten to count) to enter the sitting-room.

Holmes was dressed in his nightshirt and was just circling back towards the door, thin arms wrapped around his midsection, head sunk upon his breast, bare feet picking their way through the clutter with the clumsy elegance of a man who knows his way well but is too tired to put one foot in front of the other properly. He looked up when he noticed my entrance, and I was dismayed to see how dark the shadows were beneath his eyes.

Coming to a halt in the middle of the room, he gave a hopeful smile mixed with a tinge of remorse. "I've woken you," he stated, his voice hoarse from too many cigarettes.

"You can't sleep," I, in turn, stated gently. "How many times do I have to tell you that, as long as you're wearing a hole in Mrs. Hudson's carpet, you certainly won't be able to? Being horizontal is somewhat of a requirement, you know."

"And how many times do I have to tell you that being horizontal makes no difference if sleep simply will not come?" he returned without heat, his voice as listless as his posture was drained of energy, and then he again gave that hopeful smile.

I hesitated. His bed was a little broader than mine, but mine was still warm. With a slight jerk of my head, I invited him to follow me, and he did so with not even a token protest, which told me that he must be really desperate.

On reaching my room, I lost no time getting back to bed and holding up the bedclothes invitingly for Holmes to slide in next to me, and soon we lay, wrapped around each other, my friend buried beneath most of the blankets and his hands and feet slowly warming where they were pressed against various parts of my anatomy.

"We could save a lot of time if you simply came to me instead of pacing until you are chilled through," I chided him gently.

He grunted, which I took to be an affirmative, but, knowing my friend, I was aware that it was no more than that, certainly not an admission of being at fault.

I squeezed him fondly. "Well, will you?"

"Will I what?" he mumbled against my neck.

"Come to me instead of pacing."

He was silent for so long that I was certain he had dropped off, but then his sleepy voice came, "I could hear you snoring so comfortably that I was loath to disturb you."

"I should much prefer to be disturbed by you joining me in my bed rather than by you running yourself to ground while I am not there to prevent it."

"I shall keep it in mind," he said, which, I noticed, was not a promise in any way, shape or form.

"Honestly, Sherlock, you can be such a stubborn idiot at times."

I could feel him smiling against my skin. "And you can exhibit disturbingly wifeish tendencies, John," he shot back. "We might as well get married and be done with it."

"If it will stop you pacing in the middle of the night until you drop from sheer exhaustion, I have no objection," I said equanimously. "And now go to sleep, for heaven's sake."

There was another silence.

"John…" he pleaded softly.

I threaded my hand through the fine strands of his hair and began a slow, soothing stroking, while my other hand did the same to his back.

He sighed happily. Thirty seconds later, he was asleep, and not soon after, so was I.


	10. Moustache

Moustache  
By ElenaC

Due to a succession of coincidences involving a spur-of-the-moment journey to a medical conference on my part and a case near Banff on Holmes', I had not seen my friend for almost two weeks. When I finally did, I fear I stared at him for almost a whole minute without saying a word.

"Something wrong, Watson?" he finally demanded, irritably.

I was perfectly frozen. Whatever reaction now followed would no doubt hurt my dear friend, for I was torn between laughter, pity, and the irresistible urge to run my finger over his upper lip.

"Holmes," I finally stuttered, totally at a loss, "you've got -" I broke off. Surely he knew.

I had never seen anything so ridiculous in my life, except possibly my brother in knickerbockers. It was skimpy. It was bright ginger. It turned his eagle face into that of a starved walrus.

He doubtless deduced my thoughts from the expression upon my face combined with some crease in my jacket lapel, for he suddenly looked supremely downcast. "I was afraid of that," he said softly, with an undertone of acute disappointment.

Immediately, I hastened to reassure him. "It's not quite that bad, Holmes."

"I just read in your face, Watson, that it is precisely that bad. Possibly worse."

"No, no. I was merely... surprised. It is a bit..." I searched for a kind word and realized that there was none.

"Off-colour," Holmes suggested.

I nodded, daring to cast a glance at him. He still looked heartbroken. "It could also use a proper cut," I then said, trying to sound positive.

He reached up and ran a thin white finger over the reddish bristles upon his upper lip before casting me a sidelong glance that emphasized his long black lashes. "You do not like it," he stated.

It was time to take it on the chin. "No, Holmes. Sorry."

He sighed in obvious relief. "Good. It tickles like the blazes, Watson. I have no idea how you can stand yours." And with that, he headed into his room, reaching for his straight razor.


	11. Illicit doings

Illicit doings  
By ElenaC

"Nice view, isn't it, old chap?"

Holmes' voice is very close to my left ear. I barely have time to turn my head away from the spectacular vista of the mere and the gentle hills beyond to look at my friend when one of his wiry arms moves around my shoulders even as he steps behind me, pressing me against him and hooking one of his feet around one of mine.

"Holmes!" I hiss. There are people somewhere around. Of all the times for him to get into one of his moods!

He ignores me, pushing me forward until I am off-balance with literally only one leg to stand on, and I have to rely on his strength to keep me from falling right into the dark water.

Which is when I feel his other hand snake into the folds of my coat and deftly, blindly, opening my flies and slipping inside. "Ho- oh -- oh..."

My voice trails off. His deucedly dextrous fingers are stroking me in that way I so love to be stroked, and damn well he knows it.

"Shh." His lips brush my ear, making the sparks fly higher. "Don't make any sudden moves. I cannot guarantee to hold you if you do. And don't make a sound. People might hear."

So I am reduced to hanging in his grasp, my precarious position and the danger of arrest increasing my arousal a thousand fold even as he caresses and strokes my need higher and higher. Consumed with heat, it is all I can do to keep from thrashing in his arms while he expertly and relentlessly makes me come to glory within minutes.

Only when my breath has returned to normal does he put me back on both my feet. My coat conceals all traces of his illicit doings, but I have no doubt that my face is red with mortification and passion.

"Well," Holmes says, coolly, wiping his hand on his handkerchief, "it is getting a little chilly. By all means, let's go back to the inn."


	12. To Keep From Drugs

**To Keep From Drugs**  
by ElenaC

I had watched Holmes scrape desultorily at his violin for half an hour as he kept eying the morocco case, and I knew that the time for action would soon come. I once more consulted my note-book, memorising and re-reading, and so I was ready when he finally put down his instrument with a bleak sigh.

"I say, Watson," he said mournfully, "has there ever been a drearier day than this one? I swear that never has time seemed to creep along at quite so snailish a pace as today." He then began an aimless pacing that, I noticed, kept manoeuvering him closer and closer to the mantelpiece and the salvation of the cocaine bottle.

"We could take a little walk," I suggested, even though I knew already what he would say.

He looked at me, at the morocco case, and then at the window with, I felt, studied nonchalance. "It does not look particularly inviting outside," he pointed out.

I refrained from mentioning that such had, before, rarely influenced his decision. In fact, much to my frequent dismay, he was wont to ignore the clemency or lack of clemency of the weather whenever he felt that he should be outside, and more than once had come home soaked through and chilled to the bone. "A little fresh air would do us both a world of good," I persisted. "I could do with some exercise. My leg does not take too kindly to immobility for too long a time."

He sniffed and flung himself down upon the settee. "You'll forgive me if I do not join you, Watson," he said forlornly. "I simply do not feel like abandoning the comfort of our sitting-room."

Indeed, I did know how he felt. "I shall not leave you to yourself while you are in this mood," I said gently, moving over to him and sitting down next to him.

He looked at me with a bleak expression, his eyes like liquid pools in his pale face. "I'm afraid I am not very good company today," he said softly, uncharacteristically pointing out the obvious.

He did not move away when I put my arm around his spare shoulders, which I took to be a good sign. So I used the opportunity to gently guide his head towards my shoulder and placed both my arms around his slender shape.

This scene, in many permutations, had unfolded countless times before over the course of the last few years. I had, for a long time, been aware of the fact that my friend's occasional use of cocaine had threatened to become more than a habit. Whenever he was not working, he was using it ever more frequently in higher and higher dosages, and I was beginning to fear that he would soon be doing irreparable harm to himself.

As a consequence, I was constantly searching for ways to distract him from the depression that lay at the root of his need for the cocaine. There were actually several tactics that had proved successful, and I was glad to use them as often as Holmes would let me. Still, I feared that there would come a day when he would withdraw from me the way he was withdrawing from everyone else, for then he would surely be irretrievably lost, which would not only be the ultimate triumph for the criminal world, but a terrible tragedy to me personally.

For now, however, there was still hope. He half turned towards me and wrapped his long thin arms around me, apparently content to use me as a live pillow, and I was equally content to let him.

"There is a man lying dead in a closed room," I said softly, kissing the side of his face. "The only other occupant of the room is another man, unarmed."

"Cause of death?" Holmes asked immediately, apparently having expected me to come out with something like this.

"The back of his head is smashed in," I explained, closing my eyes to recall the facts exactly.

"Shocking." Holmes turned a little more, resting his head against my shoulder. "And I suppose the other chap is physically weak and does not look capable of such a violent act?"

"Exactly. The other chap, let's call him Jones, is a weak little man, and he has nothing in his possession besides his clothes."

"What else is there in the room?"

I began to move my hands over his slim body, trying to relax the tenseness I encountered in each whip-cord muscle. "Furniture, some paper-back books, a carpet, a window, closed, and a bed. Oh, and the door was locked from the inside, of course."

"Of course." He snuggled his face into my neck, the tension leaving his body with each passing minute. "Could he have been done in with, say, a chair?"

"All movable furniture is of inferior quality and would certainly show signs of abuse like cracks or some such. There is no such trace."

"Hmm." He kissed my neck and began his own exploration of my body, something I whole-heartedly welcomed. "Time of death?"

"A few hours ago. Four, four and a half, maybe."

"What does this Jones fellow have to say for himself?"

"He remains silent."

"Anything unusual about the room? Something a close examination would reveal that the likes of Lestrade would miss?"

I tousled his hair, delighted to find a smile upon his face, the first I had seen today. "Well, a typical, painstaking Holmesian examination would reveal a wet spot upon the carpet."

"How big? Stemming from how much liquid approximately?"

"Half a gallon, maybe."

"Colour? Smell?

I kissed his temple and one closed eye. "Neutral. Smells of carpet."

"And, raising the carpet at that point, one would find...?"

"One would find that the liquid has soaked into the floorboards."

He shifted around further until he was almost sitting upon my lap. "So it has been there for some time." His arms tightened about me. "I should deduce that, in this room without any blunt instruments that can be used for the purpose, our man has been clubbed over the head with a weapon that has since turned into water. A big block of ice or something similar."

I smiled. "You are too clever, Holmes. The book said this would take many more questions to figure out."

"So that was what you were so avidly reading earlier, Watson. I was wondering what book of an obviously non-medical nature should engender that studious expression upon your face." He shifted a little more and finally settled down against me with a sigh. "Still, it afforded me some minutes of mental exercise, and for that I thank you. I truly do not know what I should do without you."

He said it half-jokingly, but I, by no means his equal in observation and deduction, still detected the utter sincerity of his words, and my heart swelled with pride.

"I require your word of honour that you will not read that booklet behind my back, Holmes," I admonished him. "It is at present the only means of distracting you at my disposal."

He raised his head to look at me, and I was relieved to see the old twinkle in his grey eyes. "Not quite, my dear fellow, not quite. But maybe you should demonstrate your not inconsiderable talents in those areas your modesty prevents you from mentioning later today, and in the bedroom."

I smiled modestly, only too glad to follow his suggestion.


	13. Nighttime Musings

**Nighttime Musings**  
by ElenaC

_- Holmes -_

I wonder if it is possible to overdose upon happiness.

Too much of anything, good or bad, is detrimental to one's health, or so I have been led to believe by experience, mine and others'. The same is allegedly true for too little of anything. This, for myself, I have not found to be true. The body, and the mind, are capable of adjusting to receiving little input. The body, in these modern times of civilised comforts, is often fed and watered to excess anyway, and a moderately educated mind is capable of finding its own entertainment in the absence of outside stimulus.

I confess that I have never been cowed by too much mental exertion, nor have I ever found myself physically exhausted by putting my body to the uses for which it was designed, and some for which, admittedly, it was not. Food and sleep are luxuries, twelve hour walks no hardship, and running for ten miles at sprint speed is not something that will daunt me. There is no tobacco that is too strong for me. The effects of alcohol are so transitory to be almost laughable. Even most drugs fail to keep me in their thrall when I will myself to do without them. While exercise for its own sake is a waste of time, my body is nevertheless my unfailing servant whenever I have need of it.

This I do not say in conceit. I merely state facts, as always, in an effort to come to the bottom of a problem. And quite a knotty little problem it is, too. I should smoke upon it, but that would entail climbing over Watson and risk waking him, for my pipe is in my dressing gown, which is wherever I flung it earlier.

Sitting here in the dark while Watson lies in blissful slumber, I realize that I have finally encountered something that I can only bear in small amounts.

How is it possible that this man, this unassuming, ordinary, yet utterly wonderful man, can shatter my composure and move me almost to tears by putting his arms around me and touching his lips to mine?

It is, when all is said and done, merely contact of skin with skin. And yet, there must be something special about Watson's touch. No one else has ever moved me so profoundly. Indeed, it is not just his touch, but also the mere sight of him. I enjoy looking upon him, watching him. His smile of greeting in the morning will invariably stir my heartbeat and bring a sensation of heat to my face. The touch of his hand can be comforting, soothing, or arousing, and there seems to be no middle ground to the intensity of my reaction. It is all I can do to keep the world from knowing the effect he has upon me.

And now, he has shared my bed. We have done things that are called by mundane words, or by profane ones if that is one's preference. I do think that I may have lost consciousness more than once during the course of it, or at least entered a state of mind that was as far removed from my normal condition as it is possible to be. If I had pen and paper at hand now, I fear my words would be ridiculously poetic, and still they would fall far short off the mark.

I am so laughably happy that, at this very minute, if some greater power offered me the prospect of spending the rest of my days with Watson in exchange for twenty years of my life, I should gladly accept. Even worse - I would give my life for John Watson, here and now, if I were given the choice.

That, surely, is the supreme irony for one who prides himself upon his self-sufficiency, and this alone should make me run for the hills, as far away from him as I can.

Instead, I shift position so I can more comfortably watch him breathe. My Watson. How you endanger me! And how unwilling I am to change this. You will be my downfall, but until then, I shall enjoy every minute with you.


	14. A Wife For Sherlock Holmes

**A Wife for Sherlock Holmes**  
by ElenaC

A/N: Despite the title, there is not a trace of het in this.

--

"'Should I ever marry, Watson,'" I wrote, "'I should hope to inspire my wife with some feeling which would prevent her from being walked off by a housekeeper when my corpse was lying within a few yards of her.'"

I looked at that last sentence and smiled ruefully. Trust Holmes to come out with statements such as this. True, he had used this hypothetical example to make a point, but, like many things he said, it made me think. I laid down my pen and, purely as an intellectual exercise, proceeded to consider his words from another angle.

What manner of woman could conceivably capture my friend's heart? And, more importantly, what manner of woman could then keep him, with all that this entailed? What would a woman have to be like to be wife to Sherlock Holmes?

At the time I was thinking all this, Holmes was lying, deeply asleep, in his room, drained mentally and physically, after the conclusion of a case. As always, he had driven himself to the point of exhaustion and beyond in his efforts to catch his man. When I asked him when he had last eaten, fully expecting to know the answer, he had looked at me in surprise and told me that it had been more than forty-eight hours ago, and that he had simply not noticed the passage of time. He had forgotten to eat, again, and if I had dared to remind him, I should have got snarled at for my pains with an acid remark thrown in that I should cease to bother him with trifles, and that he could at present spare neither blood nor energy for digestion.

Once, only once, had I managed to induce him to eat a decent meal while he was in that state, and he had promptly grown drowsy and fallen asleep, until, two hours later, his restlessness had woken him. I had been surprised that he had not slept for much longer, for sleep was of as little importance to him during an investigation as food was, and had been as neglected. Upon awakening, he had complained bitterly of the time lost without realising that the very eloquence and energy of his remonstrance were only due to having got what little sleep he had. In any case, never again had I been able to talk him into allowing himself nourishment – or sleep - when he had decided he did not need it.

And so, all I could frequently do was nurse him back to health when the case was finally concluded and the sparkle of triumph and the thrill of the chase that had kept him going faded, resulting in a state approaching collapse. It was then that he would abandon himself to his exhaustion and to my care, allowing me to feed, water, and generally coddle him, a situation of which I would then make the best possible use.

If Sherlock Holmes ever married, all these tasks, from the restraint to the care, would fall to his wife.

I am a methodical man. I love making lists to get my thoughts in order. Postponing my telling of the tale I had chosen to call "The Valley Of Fear", I pulled a notepad towards me.

Lists have to have a title so one does not to lose track of what one is trying to accomplish. I wrote, "Sherlock Holmes – Requirements Of A Wife" and underlined that twice.

Her looks would probably be of no importance to him. He had always seen through a person's appearance to see what lay beneath, and I had no doubt that he would not change this attitude towards someone he married. However, there was one all-important thing. I wrote:

"Precondition: Must be an absolute paragon, so as to overcome his innate misgivings of women."

Chewing the end of my pencil, I thought that over. This stumbling block alone seemed monumental, so, with a feeling of security, I went on, cheerfully.

"Patience of a saint."

That much was evident. When between cases, Holmes is, in many respects, a very trying man. From his untidiness and moods to the asperities of his temper, there is very little about him that makes him palatable when he is not working, at least to the more developed sensibilities of womankind. He hates having his things rearranged or interfered with in any way, and he frequently makes his opinions and desires known in a cutting, even acerbic manner. His sarcasm, too, is quite a bane to anyone with whom he converses, and he only ever concedes a point in any conversation if he is intellectually outmanoeuvred. Which brought me to the next point:

"University-grade intelligence."

She would not only have to be able to follow his conversation, frequently interlaced with discourses on the many obscure topics upon which he could expound with effortless eloquence, but also be able to convince him that his occasional gloomy outlooks on life were, if not wrong, then at least not generally applicable. So, mere intelligence would not suffice. I wrote:

"Cheerful disposition."  
"Philosopher."

I nodded, satisfied. Major points all, and just needed for daily life with Holmes. Now for life with Holmes the sleuth-hound.

I had no doubt that Holmes would require his wife to take an active part in his work. It was, after all, his life. He would not care to burden himself with anyone who would be of no use to him in his profession. It would be uneconomical. Therefore, I could not imagine that he would take a wife who could not also be his partner in his investigations. Besides, danger might follow him home. There were scores of criminals who had sworn to take their revenge upon him, and she would have to be prepared to meet them. Therefore:

"Ability to use firearms."

Holmes had so little disregard for his personal safety that it would befall his partner and wife to be his backup. No doubt he would expect her to a least be able to point a gun in the right direction if push came to shove. And on the point of personal safety, being the world's foremost criminal expert occasionally encouraged him to underestimate his enemy. I added:

"Tactician."

And, of course, considering Holmes' habit of leaving within minutes of announcing his intention to do so, not to mention catching his train with seconds to spare:

"Fast and efficient packer."  
"Experienced traveller with little want for personal comfort."  
"Runner."

After a bit of thought, I added:

"Able to read Bradshaw."

Not an easy task, that. I had known quite a few men to fail at it. Also, since Holmes' limits were as amazing as his powers:

"Working geographical knowledge."

Now, unless she was able to use shorthand, there were another few requirements that were indispensable if his wife wished to be of use to him during a case:

"Good memory."  
"At least average deductive abilities."  
"Courage."  
"Ability to follow his orders to the letter."

I smiled again. That last point alone would be an impossibility for nearly all women I had encountered. Holmes' orders frequently were cryptic and made sense to nobody but him, but their execution was invariably essential. If he ordered you to look at and describe a man's left ear, you were very well advised to do so, and not think, for instance, that he was merely joking.

Oh yes, Holmes' impish moods. I went back to the first part of my list, that of daily life with Holmes, and added:

"Profound sense of humour."

His witticisms were often obscure and required quite a bit of intellectual effort to understand. But if you failed to understand them, he was capable of losing his good mood and sulking for hours. Oh yes, a sense of humour, and therefore an ability to appreciate Holmes' wit, was crucial.

Going back to the second part, I considered whether I had forgotten anything here as well. Lists are only useful if they are comprehensive, after all. Maybe I should add:

"Natural advantages for inspiring confidence when interviewing witnesses."  
"Brawling."

Both traits would be needed whenever Holmes decided to send his wife somewhere while he was elsewhere, be it as a decoy or for lack of time. Also, someone had to watch Holmes' back when he used his favourite avenue of information gathering, the local public house.

Oh, and:

"Gift of silence."

He could not abide having his train of thought interrupted, as I very well knew.

Now for the post-investigation duties. I wrote, with no little triumph:

"Medical doctor."

Deciding that outlining all the details involved in the care and feeding of Holmes while he was suffering from the consequences of neglecting himself would fill a small pamphlet, I left it at that. On second thoughts, there might be some small points that would rate a mention:

"Masseur, particularly of feet."  
"Live pillow."

And, connected to that last point, the all-important – if Holmes' frequent comments to that effect were to be believed -:

"Agreeable body odour."

Smiling softly, I remembered the many times when, feeling fragile and melancholy, he had cuddled up to me on the sofa late of an evening as I read my sea-novel, wrapping himself over and around me until his head rested upon my shoulder and his face in the crook of my arm, mumbling "Smells of Watson" just before falling asleep like that. Plus, there was the undeniable advantage of being able to offer him one's shirt in lieu of oneself at times when the dreams were really bad and the bed too narrow or the door would not lock.

Finally, the knock-down argument. Blushing only a little, I wrote:

"Ability to please him sexually."

Holmes is a man of voracious sexual appetite if the mood so takes him, and there is nothing he loves more than being taken. And let us not forget the corollary:

"Possessed of no little physical strength and sensual experience."

Hah. I leaned back, lit a pipe and read over my list, grinning like a fiend.

After a minute or so spent in silent basking in the security of my position, I quite immodestly put next to the title: "Be John H. Watson."

At that point, there came a faint voice through the door to Holmes' bedroom. "Watson?"

Ah. Time to put my many talents in use. A foot-rub was required, or a back-rub, or maybe just a drowsy snuggling. I folded the list twice and let it fall on my desk. "I'm coming, Holmes."


	15. Unfortunate Side Effects

**Unfortunate Side Effects**  
by ElenaC

* * *

Warning: Slash

* * *

For three hours, Sherlock Holmes had been hard at work at his chemical equipment. The constant hissing and bubbling caused by his studies had faded into a comfortable background noise for my own perusal of the latest medical periodicals, and so I looked up in surprise when it finally stopped.

My friend was holding a beaker filled with a clear liquid up to the light, head turned to the side in an attitude of appraisal.

"What's that?" I asked distractedly, for my mind was still on the new techniques for suturing about which I had been reading.

"That remains to be seen," Holmes replied, giving the liquid a little shake. "If my assumptions are correct, it should be a potent sleeping draught, or at the very least a sedative. It contains an extract made from one of the more toxic forms of a West African poison that causes the heart to stop within seconds. I have modified it to merely act calming, not deadly. Or so I hope. We shall see."

And before I could even open my mouth to protest, he had put the beaker to his lips and taken a hearty swallow of the liquid.

I sat up in my chair, galvanised with horror, trying to recall where I had left my medical bag, and if any of the medical experts on exotic poisons was currently in London. But the dreaded fatal reaction did not occur. Holmes merely sat, beaker in his hand, face contorted in an expression of distaste.

"The flavour needs some work," he announced before noticing my expression. "Do calm down, my dear Watson, I know what I am doing. It is most certainly not harmful. What remains to be seen is its exact…."

He broke off, eyes widening in surprise. I was at his side in the blink of an eye, but he merely shook his head. "All right, Watson, I am merely…" Again, he broke off, and his gaze travelled down to his lap. I followed his gaze, and, close to him as I was, I noticed the changes of topography that were rapidly taking place there. "Fascinating," he muttered, automatically placing a hand in a place where a gentleman should never touch himself in public, whether to cover the obvious distension from my sight or to find relief in the touch I do not know.

I could not help it – I laughed. "Some error in your modifications? Surely not."

He frowned fiercely. "I don't think so. It must be some miscalculation of amounts somewhere." He gasped, his hand beginning to move in an urgent rhythm.

Curbing my mirth, I hooked a hand under his shoulder. "I think as your doctor I should take a look at that," I said, nodding at his groin. "A very thorough look."

He nodded vigorously. "Oh, definitely. I should appreciate you help, my dear Watson. It is getting deucedly uncomfortable."

And so I assisted him into his bedroom, where it soon turned out that the effects of his 'sleeping draught' were not to be eased by the most concentrated efforts of digital manipulation of the affected area, or even by stimulating associated tissues and glands anywhere near it. Obviously, the only hope for relief lay in riding it out, which he did - enthusiastically.

It was only three hours later that Holmes finally rolled off me, soaked in sweat and trembling with exhaustion, while I was hard put to remember my own name. "Remind me to pour that stuff away as soon as I can walk again, John," he mumbled, eyes closed.

I brushed a sweaty strand of black hair off his brow. "I shall do no such thing, Sherlock. We could make a mint with it as soon as you've improved the taste."

He chortled.

"Besides, I went on, "just think what will happen if we both take it."

Silence answered me. He was asleep.

I leaned back, grinning. It was not often that Sherlock Holmes made a blunder, and it was rarer still that the consequences were so delightful. This was definitely a red-letter day.


	16. Lederhosen

**Lederhosen**  
by ElenaC

* * *

A/N: This snippet came into being as a response to a response to one of the Friday Fives on holmesslash: Five gifts Holmes received on his birthday. Not You responded, "A pair of lederhosen, sent to him by the king of Bohemia". I felt obliged to respond with this. (Read: Plotbunnies assailed me and worried me until I had posted it.)

* * *

I watched him open the parcel with undisguised curiosity. Holmes' birthday mail is always liable to hold a surprise or two.

This time was no exception. As my friend examined the contents of this particular parcel, I watched his face assume an expression first of puzzlement, then of dawning realisation, and finally of incredulity.

"Well?" I prompted him, unable to contain my own curiosity.

He looked up as if only now remembering my presence, and abruptly put the lid of the large cardboard box back on. "Confectionery. I'll put it away for later."

For someone who might have been the greatest actor of his generation if he had put his mind to it, Holmes could, at times, be an abysmal liar. "Holmes. What is it?"

He looked at me, and deduced from my expression that I would not let the matter rest. "Evidence of supremely bad taste, best never looked at and forgotten forever." His face showed that he was prepared to do just that.

By now, my need to see whatever it was was like a living thing. "May I...?"

He snorted. "Oh, very well. I have no wish to make a mystery of it." He took the lid off again and tossed it aside. Reaching into the box, he withdrew a grey object with numerous bottons and embroidery that I could only at second glance identify as a pair of Lederhosen.

I do not to this day know what devil was riding me. Thoughtfully, I eyed first the thing in his hands and then his slender physique. "I wonder if it will fit."

"Watson."

"It almost looks like it might. It's certainly narrow and long enough in the leg."

"Watson..."

"What's that flap in the back for?"

"I do not know, and I do not wish to find out."

"You know, if it is for what I think it is for, it might be singularly practical in certain... circumstances."

"Watson!" This time, his voice sounded positively scandalised.

I did not even hesitate, even though I doubtlessly should have. "Put it on."

He stared at me, incredulous.

"Put it on. Just once. For me. In there." I jerked my chin towards his bedroom. "With nothing else. It's leather, Holmes. You know how leather gets me going. We have an hour till lunch. Please."

He continued to stare at me. And then, for one of the few times in our acquaintance, he followed my wish without a word of protest.


	17. Chained

**Chained**  
by ElenaC

Author's Note: This snippet was inspired by the trailer for the new Sherlock Holmes movie starring Robert Downey jr and Jude Law. There is a scene where Holmes finds himself handcuffed to a bed, which resulted in some speculation on LJ's Cox&Co community on what might happen next. I was dared, so...

* * *

I opened the door to the hotel room, and I confess that the sight that met my eyes served to almost make me lose both my footing and my train of thought. After all the time I had spent specifically avoiding dwelling upon my friend's physique, here, suddenly and all unexpectedly, I was confronted with it in a way that was impossible to ignore.

Holmes, of course, gave me no chance to collect myself. "The key's beneath the pillow," he told me, for all the world as if he were giving me the results of the latest race.

I stared at the pillow, trying to focus all my attention upon it, and most definitely not upon its specific location and the naked skin and toned muscularity that surrounded it. "You must be joking, Holmes," was the best I could manage in the way of a retort.

"Unfortunately, if there is a joke, it is on me," he returned drily. "Now please, Watson, there are things afoot that require action."

I have no idea what came over me. Suddenly, I realised that here was a chance at payback for the wear and tear upon my nerves that Holmes had a habit of blithely dismissing. Smiling evilly, I walked up to the bed.

He instantly knew that something was up. With a suspicious scowl, he watched me approach, and because his self-control, when he so wills it, is near absolute, his expression did not change when I slipped my hand beneath the pillow and groped.

My questing fingers hit upon the key almost immediately. They also hit upon other things that the pillow was hiding, and since my own resolve has been tested under fire and never found wanting, I continued to touch and grope, avoiding nothing.

Beyond a surprised gasp, Holmes made no sound. I felt his disbelieving gaze upon me even as I studiously avoided his eyes, never ceasing my motions, and quickly - more quickly than I would have suspected even knowing my friend's high-strung nature, - I felt a response.

"Watson..." he breathed, beginning to squirm.

I continued for another minute, then I grabbed the key and held it out triumphantly. "Aha!"

Again avoiding his scowl, I unlocked him, and because I am basically I kind-hearted man, I turned my back when he got up, after a moment and a deep breath, to put on his clothes.

"You've been holding out on me, old boy," Holmes finally said, voice and manner back to normal. "Don't expect me to forget that."

I found myself shivering pleasantly. "I shan't."


End file.
